Murder For Hire
by spitzthecat
Summary: Someone is trying to murder Josh Lyman


/anything between slashes is stream of consciousness/

4 a.m.

Shit, I'm late. I'm late. I'm late. I've got to pick Donna up and make it to Andrews for the start of a twelve day campaign swing through 48 states culminating in the Democratic National Convention in, ironically, Sin-City. You've got it, baby.

The Democrats are invading Las Vegas!

Garment bag? Check.

Backpack? Check.

Keys? Check.

My cell phone rings as I'm starting the car.

"I'm on my way, Donna."

Her laughter is music to my ears. "Good, because take-off is at 5 a.m. sharp."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I tell her, disconnecting the phone.

Traffic isn't bad at 4 a.m. I'm stuck at a green, trying to make a left onto Donna's street. Good, it's clear.

Or not.

I'm not quite sure what the hell hit me, but I know it was large. Probably one of those damn Ford Excursions. You know the ones I mean. The SUV that's so big it won't fit in a standard garage?

Conversely, I think my BMW will now fit in a cup-holder. The side airbag deployed. Must have gotten t-boned. I don't think my leg is supposed to bend quite like that and I know I shouldn't be staring at the underside of the passenger side dashboard. Now that I think about it, my head hurts and I can't really breathe either. Where's my phone? Why is there a cotton ball in my mouth? Why is there a cotton ball around my brain?

I never did find my phone, but I don't think I looked very hard. The sound of sirens rouses me from my haze. I hear my phone ring, but I still don't know where it is.

I can hear voices. Don't know what they're saying, though. Damn, my phone is ringing again. I feel a hand brush my belt. Oh. That's where my phone was.

"Hello."

__

/Fine, just answer the damn thing like it belongs to you./

"My name is Tim. I'm with the D.C. Police Department."

__

/Hi, Tim, I'm Josh. Would you mind getting me the fuck out of here?/

"Ma'am, this phone has been involved in a serious accident."

__

/Yeah, not to mention the car the phone was in. Oh and person the phone was attached to!/

"The corner of H and 10th Streets."

__

/See, Donna. I was almost there. You probably heard the accident./

"I'm not sure that's wise."

__

/Well that was a dumb thing to say, Tim. She's gonna run down here for sure now./

"I'm not sure, ma'am. We're gonna have to cut the car open."

__

/You wouldn't mind getting started with that would you, Tim? I mean, it's getting a little cramped down here./

I hear them fire up something mechanical. Someone leans in the car.

"Josh?"

I manage a faint moan in response. I know it was faint because I barely heard it and my ears are what? Three inches from my mouth? 

"Josh, we're gonna have to cut you out, pal."

__

/Can't you just open the damn door?/

"Josh? Can you hear me?"

I'm incapable of answering Tim this time. I hear them start on the roof supports. Why am I smelling smoke?

"Shit!"

__

/Well that was comforting, Tim. What is this? Rookie day at the car accident scene?/

The smell fades as they start in with the Jaws of Life again. I can faintly hear an argument over the screech of the metal. The sound of Donna's voice wards off a panic attack that threatens as I feel the vibrations from the metal cutter when they start on the front supports.

"Josh?"

__

/Tim, you dip-shit. I have yet to actually answer you. Why would I suddenly start now?/

"Donna's here."

__

/Told you she'd run right down here./

I feel them ripping the front seats out of the car. Hands support my back as the passenger seat comes out. 

"I can't get the collar on him until we get him out, guys."

That's not Tim.

Hands reach down and grab at my legs so they can get the driver's seat out. Wow. Did that scream just come out of my mouth? Guess I can breathe.

"Holy shit."

Tim again.

"Mother"

Not Tim. 

"Get an IV and a tourniquet ready, he's losing blood."

I have the strangest sense of déjà vu. 

"Josh, we've gotta move you, buddy. It's gonna hurt, but stick with us okay?"

Strong hands reach under my armpits and another pair take my head. So far so good. They've got my legs now and yeah, it hurts. Not as much as it did the first time, but I'll be glad when they get me out of here.

They lay me out on a backboard. There goes the neck collar and they found that nice vein in my arm. Somebody just took my hand. I struggle to open my eyes, but the left one doesn't seem to want to cooperate and the right one will only open a hair. It's enough to see Donna leaning over me. 

I open my mouth to tell her I'm sorry. I know how badly she wants to go on this trip. Before I can get the words out, Donna's face is replaced by an EMT. They pick up the backboard and start trotting towards the parking lot of the 7-11 on the corner. I hear the whump-whump of the rotor blades as they slide the backboard into the helicopter and rattle off a bunch of technical jargon to the guy inside.

The chopper ride is blissfully short. I get hauled out of the helicopter and rushed into an elevator. This looks kind of familiar, I've been here before.

"Josh?"

People keep saying that like they aren't sure it's my name. Damn, get the light out of my eye.

"He's responsive to light."

The elevator ride ends and I'm in an exceedingly familiar trauma room. I can feel myself start to panic again and have no control over it. They must have put something in my IV because the panic attack fades almost as soon as it started.

"Ready?"

"Yeah. Tell me when and I'll put the chest tube in."

Chest tube? They're cutting my clothes off before I can protest.

"Damn."

Pretty impressive set of scars, isn't it? Oddly, I don't feel them put the chest tube in, I feel the drainage though and it becomes immensely easier to breathe.

"The wife's outside."

__

/She's not my wife, jackass. Do you see a ring? No. She's my She's my Donna and I swear if you upset her, I'll get up off this backboard and kick your ass into next week./

"Get the surgical consult down here to look at this leg. The chest tube is draining clear. We're probably looking at a few broken ribs there. He's going to need a bunch of stitches. Get a resident in here to start on those."

"What about the wife?"

__

/Still not my wife. Did you see us get married while you were being a jackass?/

"He's stable. Let her in until they're ready to take him into surgery."

They haven't taken the neck brace off yet and my head is still strapped to the backboard, so when Donna leans over me, I startle.

"Sshh."

She's stroking my hair and holding my hand. She's been crying, but is trying to not let me see that. I hate it when Donna cries. I squeeze her hand to comfort her. 

Well that hurt.

"Leo's on his way over."

Leo? Oh, shit. The campaign swing and the Convention. This fucks shit up royally. Everything we prepared, strategy-wise, is in my backpack. In the BMW. Which is doing an impressive impersonation of a sardine can right now.

"I got your stuff out of the car. Your garment bag and backpack. They're going to have to leave without us though."

Get out of my head, Donna. It's crowded enough in here with just me and the cotton ball. 

The doctor who thinks Donna is my wife is back. Oh, thank God, they're going to take the collar off.

"His reflexes are normal and there's no evidence of a spinal injury," he explains.

I get an admonishment to not move much and am introduced to the kid who will be suturing my head closed. He no more than starts stitching than an equally young kid in a police uniform pushes open the door. I can sense Donna smiling at him, so I figure this must be Tim.

"Mr. Lyman?"

"Josh," I croak. My kingdom for a glass of water.

"If you feel up to it, I need to get a statement from you."

I nod. It's easier than trying to talk.

"You were turning left onto 10th Street?" He starts for me.

I don't have a chance to answer before the doors swing open in a flurry. Out of the corner of my eye I see Donna get to her feet.

"Jesus Christ, Josh. I know you don't like Bruno and Doug, but this is a hell of a way to try to get out of going."

I thought she said Leo was coming.

"Josh?"

"He's pretty groggy, Sir."

The kid who is suturing my head shut is evidently a savant.

"Hmm, I'll bet."

The President and Donna step out of my limited line of vision and are replaced by Leo. I see him wince when he looks at me.

"I'll call your mom from the plane and tell her not to panic and to stay put. Donna's going to stay here and"

I interrupt him by trying to shake my head. Not real effective with my head still strapped to the backboard.

"She really wanted to go," I whisper. "Make her go."

Leo favors me with a smile. "I don't have a say in it."

Bartlet comes back over. "Ron wants one of his guys to talk to you. They'll wait until you're out of surgery, though. He thinks this is the thing."

I don't know what to say, so I close my eye and nod.

"Abbey and Zoey are going to stop in later. Get better, son. We can't do this without you."

Leo touches my shoulder gently and tells me to listen to Donna. They're gone as quickly as they came.

The surgeon comes in before Tim can begin to question me again. He explains what's wrong with my leg. It's a compound fracture of the femur and a broken ankle, in case you care. They're going to put a bunch of pins in there and I'll set metal detectors off for the rest of my life. He thinks maybe they'll stitch up the tiny nick in my femoral artery while they're in there, but its not bleeding that badly, so he'll have to think about that. My head's pretty busted up as well; it has to wait until after my leg. 

I don't remember GW's staff being this funny the last time I was here.

Savant-Stitch Boy is done about the same time Comedic Surgeon Man finishes his routine and they leave me to Tim, who was waiting patiently and turning green during the surgeon's explanation. 

He picks up where he left off. "You were turning?"

"Yeah. Light was green. Waited for a couple of cars. Pulled into intersection."

That took way to long to say. I should give up on talking for a while I think.

Tim nods, "That fits the accident scene. Did you see what hit you?

I try shaking my head again. That's no more successful than it was a moment ago and now I want to puke.

"Whoever hit you, fled the scene. The two cars that you waited for reported that a black SUV blew through the light after they went through the intersection. It was doing about 75."

Oh.

Let's rewind the movie briefly and I'll explain a couple of things. I have always received hate mail. Mostly at the office, which I read, mock, and turn over to the Secret Service. Some of it comes to my home. Those I read, mock, and store in a shoe box in my office. The Secret Service can't do anything about it, but they come look at them once a month or so and try to spot similarities to what comes to the office. CJ, Toby, Sam, Leo, the President, it's the same for all of us. Although I might be the only one using a shoebox to store them in.

After Super Tuesday, when Ritchie pulled out as the strong front runner, I started getting unsigned death threats from a radical Christian group based in Florida called The Way of the Light. The letters came to the office first, so the Secret Service kept tabs on them. The threats started getting specific: dates, places, methods. Ron Butterfield couldn't prove the letters were coming from the group. They denied it, saying someone was slandering their organization. He sent an agent down to "put the fear of God into them."

The letters stopped coming to the office.

Graphically illustrated ones started coming to my home.

They quoted passages from Mein Kampf and were written in what appeared to be blood. Most disturbing were comments about what my grandfather had endured at Birkenau and how I'd be enjoying the same sort of treatment.

I refused to involve the DC Police. It was a conscious decision on my part. I continued to give the letters to Ron. 

He gave me a bulletproof vest.

Apparently the letters had been written with goat blood and I wore the vest without protest. As long as they didn't aim for my head, I'd be okay.

Two days ago, Ron pulled me aside and said the Service had positively linked The Way of the Light to Ritchie's deputy campaign manager. He felt this nut-job had taken out a hit on me through this fringe group. The belief being that President Bartlet's reelection campaign would crumble without my presence.

My ego is big. It's not that big. There are two Secret Service agents outside the trauma room. Just in case.

Should I mention that Donna knows nothing about this?

Tim finishes up. Donna forges my signature to the statement as they come get me for surgery. One agent tails me and the other sticks with Donna. At least someone is with her.

My last thought as they put me under is that I'd be lost without her.

---

Medical machinery, whether it is a by-pass machine, a ventilator or a simple heart monitor, all beeps the same.

It's this beeping that rouses me from my dream. I can tell you for a fact you dream under anesthesia. I dreamt about my father and my sister during the surgery after Rosslyn. Held actual conversations with them. 

Today, I dreamt about my children. Two boys, twins, tall like their mother, with my curly, brown hair and brown eyes. My daughter has curly blonde hair and Donna's vividly blue eyes. She's tiny in her mother's arms when I first see her.

The beeping intrudes on my peaceful scene, however. I feel pretty numb, but morphine will do that to you. I do feel Donna's hand wrapped around mine and under the beeping, I can hear her voice. She's reading me poetry.

No, wait. 

She's reading the Washington Post.

I can still only get one eye partially open. There's an angel sitting next to me, holding my hand and reading Cal Thomas' column in the Post. She's trying to wake me up by pissing me off.

"Hey, you're awake."

I try to shrug, but one of my shoulders refuses to cooperate.

"Dislocated. It'll be fine by the time you get out of here."

How the hell does she do that?

"What's the score?" I sound like they poured gravel down my throat.

Donna hands me some water. "Dislocated shoulder, broken left femur, broken left ankle, severe concussion and some major lacerations to your head."

I grimace, that would explain the dance party between my ears.

"You've got a fair amount of cuts and bruises on your face, which is pretty swollen by the way. You got almost 100 stitches in the emergency room and they put 142 more in during surgery, but they had to shave your head to do it."

I choke on the water.

"Josh, it'll grow back."

"Promise?" I sound almost human again. Weak, but human.

She takes her damn sweet time answering, "I'm pretty sure."

A faint smile crosses her face for the first time and I am galvanized in that moment.

"Donna, did Leo take my backpack or just the files?"

"The files. Why?"

"Can I have it?"

She looks confused, but hands the backpack over. I paw through it with my one good arm, searching for the small jeweler's box I put in there a few weeks ago. 

Donna and I have been quietly dating for six months. Leo knows, CJ knows, I'm pretty sure the First Family knows. Three months ago, I started hitting jewelry stores in my spare time. I found THE ring about three weeks ago and have been waiting for THE moment.

I don't know why, but this feels like it.

I fumble a bit with the small box, trying to keep it hidden from her.

I had grand plans for this proposal. It was going to be magnificent, eloquent, romantic even. I barely have the strength to open the box, containing a small, half-carat diamond set in a thin, gold band. I turn the box to her and choke out, "Marry me."

Oh shit. She's crying again. Nodding at me, but crying and holding the ring box like it might bite her.

I hold her hand while she slips it on her finger just as the damn floor nurse opens the door.

It's Beulah Balbricker, I shit you not. One of the agents follows her into the room. She glares at him, glares at Donna and fumes at me. I don't know what I did, I just woke up.

She takes my temperature, adjust my IV, fusses over the sling on my arm and the cast on my leg.

"I need to remove your catheter," she states coldly, casting an evil look at my fiancée.

Donna and I both giggle. It was embarrassing the first time, after that all the other times she saw it done were old hat. We actually started a running count of the number of times she saw my dick while I was in the hospital after the shooting.

"110 or 111?" I ask.

"This'll be 126, Josh."

"See, it's okay. She's seen this more times than I have," I tell the nurse.

She makes a "humph" noise and gets on with it, gives me some pills and leaves a bedpan within reach before stalking out of the room.

Beulah's business finished, I drift off to sleep as the painkillers kick in.

---

I wake to the sound of Zoey "ohhing" over Donna's ring. The painkillers and shock have worn off and every inch of my body, including the hair I don't have anymore, aches.

Zoey and Donna are on my left side, so I can't see them, but Abbey Bartlet's appraising face appears over me as I open my right eye as far as I can.

"You look like hell."

I open my mouth to thank her for the frank observation, but all I can do is moan.

"Josh?" Donna's voice is full of concern.

"Probably feel worse than you look."

Mrs. Bartlet's bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired now that she's surrendered her medical license.

"I don't know. Haven't seen a mirror."

At least breathing doesn't hurt so much.

"Trust me when I tell you, you don't want to."

I think Zoey just sat down next to my leg. They've got it elevated in one of those traction things. The cast stretches from my hip to my toes, which are covered with a goofy-looking knit cap. It's blue with a tassel on it and bears a striking resemblance to the wood covers on my golf clubs.

"Can I sign it?"

I turn my head to look at her. "You want to sign my cast?"

"Yeah, unless you're going to get a colored one."

"Zoey, I'm 37 years old. Would a neon green cast really be appropriate?"

"I was actually thinking about red, white and blue."

"Funny, kid. Very funny. Don't you have classes to study for?"

Donna is snickering, "You know that would be very patriotic on the campaign trail."

I turn to appeal to Mrs. Bartlet. She arches an eyebrow at me, "Just let her draw on it. You'll be in this one for quite a while from what I hear."

"Okay, okay. But be nice."

She whips out a set of Crayola markers.

"Why are you carrying markers?"

"Relax, Josh. We came from church and I was babysitting the preschoolers. I knew we were coming over so I borrowed them," Zoey explains.

"It's Sunday? I slept an entire day?"

"No, they came in every hour and woke you up. You have a concussion, remember? Oh, they put the catheter back in. Make it 127."

Count on Donna to set me straight.

Abbey looks slightly concerned. "You don't remember them waking you up?"

I shake my head, "No. I remember Nurse Balbricker interrupting my eloquent proposal..."

Donna snorts.

"She gave me some pills and took out the catheter. I fell asleep after she left the room."

"What's wrong?" 

That's from Donna. I could care less.

"Probably nothing. They're doing a CT scan this afternoon, if it's anything it'll show up then."

---

I'm subjected to the CT scan and a round of physical therapy on my shoulder in the afternoon. Everyone who sees me wants to sign my cast. Zoey not only signed it; she drew a huge red, white and blue donkey on it.

I have to spend at least a week at Chateau GW. We settle into a routine. Donna spends the morning in the office, I spend them doing physical therapy. She brings me lunch and we spend the afternoon working. Not that I accomplish much, I'm having a lot of trouble concentrating. We watch TV at night and Donna goes home around 11.

Wednesday, she's a little late bringing lunch and as the physical therapist leaves, I'm surprised by the appearance of Danny Concannon.

"You look like shit," he says by way of greeting. I still haven't gotten up the guts to look in a mirror. Tim the rookie cop was waiting for me on Sunday after the CT scan and took some Polaroids for the police report. I made him swear they wouldn't end up on the evening news.

"Dave let you in?" There are members of the GW staff my new Secret Service detail won't let in anymore.

Nurse Beulah for one.

"I bribed him."

"With what?" Danny sucks at bribes, exhibit A — Gail the Goldfish.

"McDonald's."

I shake my head in disbelief. Donna went out of her way to find out all the food Dave likes, brings him lunch everyday. Danny scores with McDonald's.

"I'm hearing some weird stuff, Josh." He sits down in the official visitor's spot, right next to my leg.

"Go ahead and sign it," I offer. "What are you hearing."  


Ever the journalist, Danny produces a Sharpie from his pocket. "That when the DC Police pulled the SUV they think hit you out of the Potomac, the Secret Service claimed jurisdiction."

"Who'd you hear that from."

"Tell me about the death threats."

It's very hard to glare at someone with only one, partially open eye. They think the swelling around my left one will take almost a month to go down. The first CT scan revealed the occipital bone was broken. It didn't show any damage to the eye, retina or nerves, so I shouldn't have any vision problems.

"Josh, you've been wearing a bullet proof vest to campaign stops for three months."

I continue trying to glare at him. He continues whatever is he's doing, including pissing me off.

"So, this is what I'm hearing. You've been getting death threats from a group called The Way of Life. They're a fundamentalist Christian enclave in Florida, in case you didn't know. These death threats are pretty damn specific. You show them to the Secret Service and you take precautions. Except one of them gets delivered late."

Danny hands over an envelope. "It came on Saturday instead of Friday."

My hands shake as I open the letter. It's pretty much like all the others, except it tells me that I'll die in a hit and run auto accident on Saturday morning.

"Where did you get this, Danny."

My voice is firm and soft, filled with rage.

"Who's been getting your mail?"

"Donna."

"I called her yesterday to see how you were doing and she was absolutely terrified. You probably should have told her about this. I did some checking with Ron Butterfield and that kid police officer."

"It's complicated, Danny."

"Ron said to keep my damn mouth shut. Why is that, Josh?"

"What do you want?"

"You and Donna to get married and grow old. That's a nice ring, by the way."

"What do you want?"

"An exclusive," he shrugs. "What else?"

"Donna's outside?"

Danny nods and goes to bring her in, leaving satisfied with sitting on the story a while longer. 

If Donna went to the office today, I'd be surprised. It looks like she's been crying for hours. Looking up at her, I realize I should have told her. In trying to protect her, all I did was hurt her.

I take a deep breath and start. I explain everything about the hate mail, the death threats, the precautions we took. I apologize to Donna and beg her to understand why I did it this way. She finally seems to understand and curls up next to me on the bed, resting her head on my good shoulder, still sobbing.

It's not long before she cries herself to sleep. I lie awake thinking for a while, until the effort gives me a headache.

----

I'm a lucky guy. Not only did Donna forgive me for not telling her about the death threats, she knows a tailor. She got me a bunch of inexpensive pants and jeans that go with most of my suits and had her friend alter them. 

I settle for track pants to leave the hospital though. It's been 11 days; I'm going stir-crazy. I even get to go back to work, which means Donna and I take a cab from GW to National and hop a flight to Las Vegas. My left eye is still swollen shut, but as I'm getting dressed in the bathroom I look at myself for the first time.

If I'd gone 15 rounds with George Foreman, I wouldn't look worse. One set of stitches trails from my left cheek, over my eye, up my forehead and then down my head to the back of my neck. They think that's where I hit the dashboard. Another set starts near the corner of my right eye and continues back behind my ear, probably from the sudden stop on the passenger-side floor. The left side of my face is still swollen and is a particularly ugly shade of greenish yellow from the fading bruises.

I bare a striking resemblance to Dr. Frankenstein's monster.

I am also an ugly bald man. They shaved my head again this morning to prevent infection. Track pants and a FDNY t-shirt go on with no problem. 

Donna arrives to find me still in the bathroom, scowling at the mirror, trying to figure out how to cover my stitches. She pulls something out of her bag and ties it around my head. An American flag bandana. I pivot on my good leg and pull her close, burying my face in the crook of her neck.

"Thank you," I whisper into her soft skin.

"I've got your Mets cap, too. I think it'll have to wait for your hair to start growing back again though."

"You take care good care of me, Donna."

I get a kiss for my thoughtfulness and then she hands me my crutches.

"Andy and Dave are waiting downstairs."

---

We have to fly first-class or buy my cast its own seat. We opt for first class. Dave and Andy sweet talk the couple in the front row into changing seats with Donna and I, so I don't kill any flight attendants. We board last and I can tell this is going to be a long flight. I am drawing stares from the other passengers. The attention makes me extremely uncomfortable after recent events.

The flight attendant takes my crutches from Andy after I get settled. He and Dave are across the aisle and three rows back. As soon as I can, I tilt my seat back and try to sleep. I feel Donna spread a blanket over me as I start to drift off.

"Excuse me, sir?"

I open my eye and turn my head to toward the sound of the man's voice. It's the guy across the aisle.

"Yes?" I try to be polite because I'm with Donna.

"Have you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?"

He's very earnest in his question, so I give him a half-smile. "I'm Jewish."

"Oh." He pauses for a beat. "Can I give you a pamphlet to look at? In the spirit of openness and understanding?"

Don't make a scene, don't make a scene. "Sure."

He hands me a brochure, thanks me for my time and graciously leaves me alone.

Donna leans over. "Jehovah's Witness?" She whispers.

"Nah, gave up to easy." I glance at the back of the brochure and choke. It takes all my willpower to not starting screaming. "The Way of the Light."

Donna goes as white as a sheet.

There's a napkin folded inside the brochure.

"My name is David Welch. Please meet me at the bar of the Airport Holiday Inn an hour after the flight lands. Feel free to send your friends if you aren't comfortable. I have some information for you."

Should I be suspicious? The guy is offering to meet with me or the Secret Service in a public place. I pull out my phone and page Andy with a 911.

He comes up the aisle a moment later. I tilt my head towards David Welch, hand him the napkin and ask a couple of stupid questions as a cover.

About five minutes later, I get a page from Ron Butterfield: "Meet you there."

I show it to Donna and we quietly argue over whether she should go. In the end, she agrees to head straight to our hotel room if Ron will send an agent with her. Otherwise, she'll stay with me.

We land on time. Donna, Dave, Andy and I exit the airplane, gather our luggage and meet our ride to the Holiday Inn.

Dave waits in the bar until Mr. Welch shows up.

Ron, Andy and I are waiting in the corner of the lobby when Ron's pager goes off. Dave's signal that Mr. Welch is there alone.

Andy goes in first and takes a seat at the bar, ordering a beer he won't drink. Ron and I join Mr. Welch at his table. He's very, very nervous.

"I'm sorry my last letter was late," he says quickly.

"You've been mailing the letters?" I ask.

"Just the death threats," he clarifies. "The specific ones. With dates and places."

He's glancing between Ron and I like he's watching a game of ping-pong.

"Why." When Ron asks, it's a demand, not a question.

"It's not the way of Jesus to kill anyone," he states, making eye contact with me. "Even a Jew."

"You sent the letters as warnings?" Ron has now taken over the conversation.

Welch nods. 

"How did this start?"

"Miles Wilson was a member of our group up until a year ago."

Miles Wilson is Ritchie's deputy campaign manager. He came out of nowhere, had no experience on political campaigns at all. We've all wondered why Greg Fitzsimmons, the guy running Ritchie's campaign, hired him.

"He and several others are also members of the Florida Citizens Popular Militia. They run around and play war games once or twice a month. It's rather pathetic and brutal. They've got some pretty weird rituals involving goats."

Great. Right-wing, paramilitary, drinkers of goat blood are trying to kill me.

"What kind of evidence can you give us?" I love Ron. I'm thinking about goat blood, he's saving my ass.

***

By the time I arrive at the hotel, I'm dying. My painkillers have worn off. I'm physically exhausted and mentally whipped. 

The fact that Donna is in semi-formal wear indicates to me that we have an event to attend. Which means I can't take my painkillers until after dinner or I'll vomit all over my dinner partner. I have to put on nice clothes and take off the do-rag.

It takes me forever to get ready. "What is this again?" I ask, balancing against the bathroom vanity while trying to tie my tie.

Donna takes over for me, noting my shaky hands. "Are you okay?"

"No." I swallow hard. Today has been a very long day.

"We'll make an appearance, prove that you are still alive, mingle, eat and then leave," she presses a hand to my forehead. "You're running a fever. I've got some Tylenol."

"Who are you rooming with?" I have a feeling tonight is going to be bad, but I don't want to draw attention to us. The senior staffers have rooms of their own, but the assistants are doubled up.

"I'm with Bonnie."

I cannot repress my sigh of relief. Bonnie knows about us and knows how to keep her mouth shut. Margaret and Mildred, the new presidential secretary, do not know and are the biggest gossips in the West Wing.

"Can you ditch her?" I make a face at the Tylenol she hands me.

"Bonnie would commit perjury for us this week, Josh. Take the pills."

"They'll make me sick."

"You haven't been keeping Tylenol down?" Donna grabs her purse. The doctors gave her my discharge instructions, including what drugs I've been successful in taking.  


"Not on an empty stomach," I admit.

"We'll make an appearance and then leave," she decides, helping me out of the bathroom.

By the time we reach the ballroom, I'm sweaty and shaky. I can barely handle the crutches. 

I'm making small talk with a local big-time donor when Andy and Dave swoop in out of nowhere. They make no apologies as I am muscled out of the ballroom and back to my hotel suite where Ron Butterfield is waiting.

"David Welch is dead," he tells me. That rushing sound in my ears cannot be normal.

"Mr. Lyman? Do you understand what I'm telling you?" I barely hear him.

"Get Ms. Moss in here." Ron's arm steadies my wavering form.

"Josh!" Donna's hysterical. Great.

The four of them get me seated on the bed and Donna loosens my tie and shirt collar.

"What happened?" I whisper, still shocked by Ron's news.

"We found nothing. I have to assume they know he talked. I have to assume they're done playing around with you. They'll likely make another go of it, probably in public, probably big and splashy."

"Tomorrow night's fundraiser?" Donna asks.

"I'd guess so."

"I can't just not go." The noise in my ears has finally subsided.

"Josh, they're going to kill you tomorrow night." Donna puts the thoughts running through my head out there.

"There's another possibility." Andy mentions quietly.

"Then she stays out of sight." I connect his dots all too easily.

"You want me to stay out of sight, while you parade in front of God and everyone trying to get yourself killed? Are you insane?" 

Now she's pissed.

"Killing Ms. Moss accomplishes nothing for them," Ron states flatly. "We know why they want Mr. Lyman dead. Ms. Moss, I know it sounds callous, but it _is_ the fastest way to end this."

Donna nods. She knows I need this to be over. "Ron, promise me you'll keep him safe."

"Promise me a dance at the wedding," he replies while herding Dave and Andy out of the room.

"Stay with me tonight." I don't ask, I beg.

"Always."

---

"The vest is designed to stop almost everything on the market," Andy explains. It should, the damn thing is heavy enough. I can't even feel my detail patting me down.

"What if they shoot me in the head?"

"You're screwed and we're unemployed," Dave quips.

In five minutes, I'll be in the middle of the biggest fundraiser we hold during the convention. It's packed with people. Donna is working with Bonnie in their suite, proof-reading the acceptance speech for tomorrow night. Two agents are inside the room with them; two are outside the door. I'm going in the fundraiser alone. 

I'm scared shitless.

__

/Mingle, come on, you can do it. Just mingle./

Twenty minutes of telling myself that is giving me a headache. The queasiness is back, too. That's from not eating at all today though.

Ron didn't think it would be long. He thinks they'll do it before the President's arrival. I pause in the middle of the crowd. Adjusting the crutches I get a sudden jolt. It feels like someone just kicked me in the kidneys. The impact sends me head first to the floor. 

The impact of my head, most specifically the left side of my face, hitting the floor knocks me senseless.

As my awareness gradually returns, it brings with it the sounds of screaming and chaos.

"Shooter is down! Shooter is down!"

__

/Good, it would suck to have a shooter in the same room as the President./

"Bulldog is down. Say again, Bulldog is down."

__

/Who the hell is Bulldog? Oh, wait. That's me. I'm down? Only because I can't get back up./

"Don't move, Mr. Lyman."

__

/Hi, Andy. You know you can call me Josh, right?/

"It was a .44 I'm checking. No blood. I repeat, no blood." Andy has his knee on my butt, pinning me to the floor. His hand is reaching under my shirt.

__

/Getting awfully fresh there aren't you, Andy?/

"We're taking you to the hospital as a precaution, Mr. Lyman."

__

/Welcome to the party, Dave. Have I mentioned that I hate hospitals? Even ones I haven't been to yet?/

"Agent Butterfield is bringing Ms. Moss."

__

/Shouldn't Ron be looking after the President?/

Since I landed face down, they straighten me out and roll me over on to the backboard. Someone presses a cloth against my left eye and they tote me into a waiting ambulance. 

Donna is waiting at the hospital along with Ron. The vest stopped the bullet, so all I get for my trouble is a new bruise. I'm good with that though, since the landing on my face thing split my head open again. 72 more stitches and the fuckers shave my head again. Ron informs me the shooter was Miles Wilson, Ritchie's deputy campaign manager.

The Ritchie campaign is denying any and all culpability. Greg Fitzsimmons is out on his ass; some guy named Michael Langley is in. Sam is working on a statement accepting the Ritchie campaign's denial of involvement. The President's numbers are up 25 points and best of all, I don't have to spend the night in the damn hospital.

"My hair was just starting to grow back," I whine to Donna once we're alone in my hotel room. She's helping me settle into bed.

"Take your pills and be glad you're alive," she yells from the bathroom.

"Come here, please?"

"What?" She looks aggravated and I don't blame her.

"I'm sorry for all of this. If I wasn't such an egotistical jackass, none of it would have happened."

She sits on the bed next to me, running her hand over my freshly mown head. "I kind of like it like this."

"I'm an ugly bald man, Donnatella. This is what you have to look forward to."

"Do you remember coming out of the anesthesia after surgery?" Her voice is soft; like she's going to tell me something I shouldn't know.

"No," I whisper my response. I remember my dream though, our twin boys and blonde haired little girl. The look on Donna's face is strange, soft like her voice, but far away.

"You kept whispering the name Isabella. I asked you who she was and you told me she was our daughter."

Donna, please don't cry. I hate it when you cry.

"That's what I have to look forward to."


End file.
